


Innocence

by starshine



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU - started before series 2, F/M, different characterisation to canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-08-22
Updated: 2012-08-22
Packaged: 2017-11-12 16:11:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/493147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starshine/pseuds/starshine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In some strange way, she wished that Jim were with her now. Or Sherlock. Or even Dr. Watson. They would know what to say, how to stop them. They probably wouldn't even need the police protection at all. She wanted to be more like them. Less like Molly.</p><p>Transfer from ff.net - started before series 2 aired.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Hey :)  
> Okay, so, with the release of the new series, I think it's safe to say that this story is now an AU, wherein Molly (and the other characters, ofc) follow a very different route from canon. It was started before the new series, obviously, so some characters might not match up to their interpretations in the show, no matter how brilliant they were in it, *cough*Irene*cough*, sorry! Decided to move it over here, see how it goes. I'll be updating regularly, there's 14 chapters already written, so nearly done!  
> Anyway, I hope you like it, and don't forget to review :)  
> Onwards!

He's there. He's always there.

The girl stands, cold and wet from the rain, peering through the darkness to try and get a good look at him. Her hair sticks to her forehead and the concrete floor digs into her bare feet as she squints and stares.

But of course, it's him. It's always him.

More out of hope than anything else, she takes a step forward - just to be sure. And then she sees him clearly.

The grey sheets of rain don't seem to affect him; he's standing, arms at his sides and eyes narrowed, his hair ever perfect and his clean-cut suit pristine. The darkness seems to stick to him as if it were actually of some substance - it pours in around his face, trying to hide his dark hair and pale face, shadows falling across his cheekbones. It clings to him as if it were a part of him. Thin wisps of mist pool around his feet, looking like smoke and giving him a look that's almost supernatural. Taking his eyes away from the girl for a moment, he glances to his shoulder and brushes an invisible mark off his jacket. Then, he turns back to her and he smiles - that cruel, madman's smirk she can't seem to get out of her head, his dark eyes glittering in the dim moonlight with something uncomfortably close to insanity. Terrifying, and yet so familiar.

Not for the first time, the girl turns and runs.

As always, he follows straight away, his smirk widening into a grin as he strides behind her.

Her thin dress billows around her as she runs, her hair peeling from her face and blowing behind her. She runs so hard, her breathing rugged and heavy and her own blood pounding in her ears, as her feet start to bleed from running on uneven ground without shoes. She has to escape.

She dares to look behind her, hoping that for once, she's lost him. But he's there. He's always there.

And then he speaks.

His voice is like caramel; soft, smooth and almost comforting, persuading her to stop. But the girl knows better. There's venom behind his words - hidden poison threatening to strike if ever she slows down.

"Molly," he seems to sing, "you don't have to run from me."

But she does, she knows she has to, and so she keeps running, trying desperately to get away. But her energy is failing and her breaths are shallow - the wind is biting at her skin, it's unforgiving cold fighting with the unbearable heat coursing through her veins as she runs. Tears stream from her stinging eyes - each raindrop feels like a bullet on her bare skin. Her legs begin to slow inadvertently, and the man behind her laughs, tainted with evil and poison, his mask slipping for just a second, revealing the man underneath. He hasn't even broken a sweat.

"You can't run forever, Molly," he says, the pitch of his voice dropping, "I'll always be right behind you."

The girl runs on, now sobbing amongst her shallow breaths, and she knows he's right. She can't run forever - she'll have to stop at some point. And he'll be there. He's always there.

She can hear his footsteps behind her; echoing like thunder across the empty street. Mist rolls across the floor around her, it's thin, wispy tendrils crawling up her ankles, coaxing her, trying to persuade her to stop. They're like tree roots, each another obstacle, trying to trip her up.

The mist is thickening now, her breath shorter than ever. She can't see the floor, but she keeps going anyway, each step a step into the unknown. Her chest heaves, each frantic breath burns her throat like acid. But she has to keep running – he's still behind her, she can hear him breathing. He can't catch her. She has to escape.

There's a crack in the floor. She falls.

Her knees connect with the pavement with a loud crack, and she can feel the grazes and bruises already. She puts her hands out to stop her face hitting the floor, and they take the full force of the fall. Her hands, feet and knees are cut and bleeding and she's cold and wet, shivering in the mist and rain. She kneels up and buries her face in her hands, sobbing so hard her whole body shakes. She daren't look behind her, for fear of what she knows is there.

He hums - the girl hears him. It's almost sympathetic, almost comforting. The girl feels his jacket fall around her shoulders; it's dry, but colder than the air around her, as if carved from dry ice. She freezes when it touches her, she can't move her legs as much as she wants to escape, and fear knocks the breath out of her again.

She lowers her hands and he's there, kneeling in front of her, still dry. His dark eyes seem as endless as the night above them, a window to his true self - empty and dark, with no space for anyone else. His marble face softens as he looks at her, the only trace of his true self the twisted smirk spreading across his face like water.

"Silly Molly," he croons, pushing her hair from her face. She wants to flinch away but she can't, eyes wide as he smiles at her in a way that makes her stomach churn. The velvet mask on his voice slips once more, and his words hit the girl right in her heart, cold, unfeeling, evil.

"I was always going to catch you. It was just a matter of when."

He puts his arms around her and the girl wants to scream, but she can't. She's trapped between his icy arms, held in his possessive embrace. She just stares ahead as he whispers in her ear; she can practically hear the grin in his voice.

"Nobody escapes from James Moriarty."

Molly Hooper awoke with a start, sitting bolt upright in bed, drenched in cold sweat. Her hair was plastered to her forehead and her breathing ragged and shallow.

It only began to slow when she heard the cat purring at the foot of her bed.

It was just another dream; he wasn't here. She was alone. Safe.

There were police outside, there always was - they would protect her, they had promised. They were her safety net – a thin web of , always watching, waiting for him to come back to her.

There was a creak from another room – probably the wind, maybe the cat trying to get out of the room, but it was enough to make Molly's heart rate rocket again, her breathing becoming just as laboured as before. She tried to calm down, maybe even get back to sleep, trying to convince herself of what her rational brain knew to be true.

He couldn't get to her, he couldn't hurt her. Not like before.

And yet, the thought of her ex-boyfriend's face scared Molly more than anything else in the world.


	2. Chapter 2

In all honesty, there was no point moping about it.

Molly had never been the kind of person to show her feelings anyway - not in the cold, heartless way, but rather in a shy, reserved kind of way. If she could help it, then she wouldn't tell anybody how she was feeling; they simply didn't need (or want) to know. 

Not that anybody ever asked.

So she kept her fear to herself. The morgue had offered her months upon months of compassionate leave for 'the shock' whilst she was under police protection, but she insisted on returning almost immediately. It gave her something else to think about, at least, keeping his face out of her head.

Because as much as Molly Hooper tried to lie to herself and everyone else around her, pretending that everything was okay and that she wasn't scared at all, inside she was dying. She couldn't sleep at night, she couldn't walk down the street without checking over her shoulder every now and then, and she couldn't - wouldn't - talk about it. About him.

Jim.

Even his name made her shiver. She knew he was out there. Probably watching her, despite what they said. Waiting. And she knew he would come after her. It was just a matter of when.

The thin web of police protection did barely anything to calm her fears. All it did was give her the courage to actually try and sleep at night - if she was lucky, she'd get half an hour before she woke from her nightmares.

But still, the next day, she'd cover the bags and dark circles with concealer and foundation, plaster on a smile as she left the house and head to the morgue as usual. Normally, she'd spend most of the day alone; the other people in the workplace never knew what to say to her, and as much as Molly pretended, she knew they were always thinking about it. About him. It seemed it was infectious.

Nobody could look at her without pitying her. And Molly hated that.

So she distanced herself from the other people in the lab, didn't go out with them after work ever again, preferring instead to spend the majority of her time either with the dead or her cat. But, of course, there were those times - those special, wonderful times - where he'd come along, looking for some body or another.

Sherlock Holmes didn't see the point in sympathy, it seemed. He didn't see the awkwardness between Molly and the rest of the world the way other people did - it simply didn't function in his head. Nothing changed in their relationship after Jim - if you could call it a relationship at all. Molly went on silently admiring the man, blushing when he spoke to her and jumping at the chance to be just in the same room as him, and he went on acting completely oblivious, even though it was obvious he wasn't from the quips he shot at her from time to time. But Molly didn't care. She was too grateful to have a constant in her life. To have him in her life.

The first day Molly returned to work, he swaggered into her lab as if nothing had happened, a couple of stitched-up gashes across his head and a limping Dr. Watson in tow. The kind-hearted doctor had given Molly an understanding smile, something which she appreciated. It wasn't pitying, nor was it awkward. It was empathetic. He knew what she was going through better than most - better than people who hadn't been involved, who couldn't understand, and better than Sherlock, to whom human emotions were nothing but chemicals and numbers.

Dr. Watson offered to talk to Molly about the whole affair, but she declined. As the months went by, of course, John managed to bring at least some of her thoughts to the surface, but really, that was only to be expected. Whereas Sherlock was a wall, who didn't talk about anything to anyone but John, Dr. Watson was welcoming and warm. Despite the fact she never planned to, it was him and only him that Molly had spoken to Jim about in the past six months, and he didn't seem to mind.

Sherlock, on the other hand, acted completely nonchalant, discarding the explosion he'd been involved in as nothing but another case. Nobody was really sure, down at the morgue, how they'd survived the bomb at the pool, and nobody had the courage to ask - all that was important, after all, was that they had, and if they didn't want to share how, then it really wasn't anybody's business. Least of all Molly's.

He came into the morgue from time to time - sometimes accompanied by DI Lestrade, another man who didn't know what to say to Molly, and always accompanied by Dr. Watson. Absolutely nothing changed. He still ignored her. 

And without Jim from IT to distract her, Molly couldn't help but fall for him again. 

Hard.

She tried not to think of him, she really did; after all, it was nigh on impossible that anything was ever going to happen between them, she'd accepted that long ago. But she couldn't help herself. Not only was it a distraction from her maniac ex, but he was so damn difficult not to think of.

He was enigmatic, intelligent, and god damned beautiful. He swanned about the labs like he owned them, like he knew he was better than everyone there - which, of course, he was. His mind was one of a kind - perfect, as sharp and cold as ice. He didn't feel, he didn't care, he just... thought. Investigated. Deducted.

And Molly could watch him work for years.

She knew it was dangerous to offer her entire heart to a robot who was sure to never take it, but really, she didn't care. He was just so perfect.

So unlike Jim... and yet so alike him in other ways. But Molly tried not to think of their similarities.

As she arrived in the lab that day, alone, as always, she found herself wishing once again that he'd show up. It had been over a week since his last visit - surely another case had come up since then? Really, the dreams were getting too much. Molly needed a more significant distraction.

But, no. All that awaited her in the lab was a bored-looking DI Lestrade leaning against a cupboard.

"Um... Inspector Lestrade?"

He seemed to wake up with a start as he turned to face her, his expression softening into a smile. "Hi, Molly. You alright?"

Molly was already suspicious as she peeled off her coat and put her bag down. Then she turned to face the man, her brow furrowed slightly. "I'm fine, thanks," she said, not elaborating, "Is there anything I can do for you?"

The man looked taken aback at the fact Molly hadn't returned the pleasantries. "Yes, actually..." he said, pushing himself upright, "I need to see the results of an autopsy."

Molly nodded. "Sure. What name?"

"Baker. Janice Baker."

She smiled a tight-lipped smile and turned to the filing cabinet in the corner of the room. DI Lestrade followed her. The now familiar awkward silence fell; Molly knew it was only a matter of minutes before the man tried to fill it.

DI Lestrade was a kind, gentle man. He ran his section of the Police Force well - he was a good boss, a friendly boss. He lived alone, Molly knew that, and spent most of his time in his office drinking cheap coffee and trying to avoid Sherlock. He did, however, admire the younger man. That was obvious to everyone. And it seemed sometimes that the respect was mutual - that maybe, DI Lestrade fell into that ultra-exclusive category of people who Sherlock could stand to be around.

Most of all, though, once DI Lestrade had something in his head, he wouldn't let it go. Whether it be a case, building a friendship or concern for a colleague. So Molly knew he'd start trying to fill the silence soon enough.

"Molly..." he seemed to sigh. Molly hummed in response.

"Are you sure you're alright?" She ignored the question, so he continued. "It's just that... well, I've heard you've started isolating yourself - the other people in the lab seem worried about you, Molly-"

"Where's Sherlock?" She interjected, cutting him off, "Isn't it him who usually does the legwork down to the morgue?"

Lestrade paused. "He's with a friend, he said. Didn't come in today."

Molly tried to voice a noncommital hum, but found it difficult. A 'friend'? Sherlock didn't have friends. What was going on?

Lestrade interrupted her train of thought.

"You know, Molly, it's okay if you need to talk to someone - after what you've been through, anyone would-"

"Janice Baker." Molly interrupted, pulling the file from the drawer. "Here you go." She handed it to the defeated-looking detective. "Anything else?"

She tried to smile brightly. He shook his head. "No. Thanks, Molly."

"Well then," she said nonchalantly, walking past him, "if you don't mind... it's just, you know, I've got a lot of work to do."

She continued to face the wall, but heard the man sigh. "Sure, I understand. But, Molly - just think about what I've said, yeah? Please, you don't understand - you need to tell someone how scared you are, I can see it - but they won't believe me unless you tell them."

Molly bit her lip. "See you later, Detective Inspector Lestrade."

She heard the man leave and sighed, turning around and leaning against the wall.

Was this what she'd been reduced to? Someone who couldn't even hold a decent conversation with someone who was actually trying to help her? Someone who wouldn't admit there was something wrong - that she couldn't sleep at night for fear?

She'd pushed him away just like she'd done to so many others. He had sounded a bit desperate, too - actually worried. What was it he'd said - 'they won't believe me'? Who wouldn't believe him? Who cared if she was scared or not? Nobody had ever shown an interest before. They'd stuck her under police protection and shut her away when she might have actually been willing to talk about it, and now she found herself unable to voice any feelings and clinging to the police protection as the only good thing left in her life.

Molly shook her head and tried not to think about it, choosing instead to concentrate on the mystery of Sherlock's new 'friend'.


	3. Chapter 3

Molly returned to work the next day, the same as always, this time with no DI Lestrade waiting for her in her lab. As usual, the nightmares had kept her up most of the night, but she smiled brightly at the people she passed on the way in.

She had a good feeling about today. And that didn't happen often.

The body that DI Lestrade had come in to examine the previous day turned out to be part of a much larger case. She had been brought in around a week ago, tell-tale signs of hanging around her neck. There were deep marks where the rope had cut into her neck and almost no other marks on her body, except for the scuffs on her otherwise immaculate nails and shoes as she struggled and tried to claw the rope away from her neck, most probably realising she'd made a mistake. Molly could imagine it - as much as she wished she hadn't.

However, there were other marks on her body. Not many, that was sure, but some. Around her arms, around her neck where the rope hadn't touched - it looked like she'd been man-handled quite harshly. So, as the rest of the pathologists dismissed the case as suicide, Molly ran a toxin scan on the vicitm's blood.

The results had come in yesterday. It's facts were clear - Janice Baker had been drugged before she died.

But that wasn't the only reason Molly was in a good mood.

She'd got a call in the night - she didn't mind, she was awake anyway - asking if she could come in early to work. She happily obliged, thankful for another distraction. Plus, she wanted to be the first one to see this.

There was another body.

Janice Baker's eldest daughter - Eloise, aged 17 - had been brought in in the night, her wrists slit. Another case of seemingly suicide - but after Janice, Molly knew better. Before she put the phone down, she told the man on the other line to do a toxin scan on Eloise's blood. He obliged - a new boy, just starting out, on the night shift for extra money. Molly had seen him around before.

This time, Molly wouldn't let the morgue dismiss the case as suicide. Plus she knew that Lestrade wouldn't let it go - he would listen to her, and he'd notice that something was wrong. Especially after the toxin scan came back positive - which Molly was sure it would. She was sure this wasn't suicide. She was sure there was something else - something entirely more sinister going on with this case.

More importantly, she was sure Sherlock wouldn't be able to resist it.

In the end, she hadn't arrived in work any earlier than usual - blaming it on traffic to her boss. In fact, she had spent nearly an hour choosing an outfit for the day, doing and re-doing her hair, choosing make up. She had to look her best if Sherlock was coming in, no matter how futile her efforts undoubtedly were.

So, she strode into her lab head held high that morning, the room empty but for the body of Eloise Baker, covered up with a sheet. Molly set about getting ready for the autopsy immediately.

Just as she was pulling on her gloves, however, the man she'd spoken to on the phone came rushing into the room. Molly turned to him.

"Yeah?"

"The results came back on the scan - Molly, I think you'll want to read this."

Molly took the thin sheet of paper from his hands, scanning it and smiling. "Thanks," she said, grinning at him, "that'll be all."

He turned and left, offering her a smile, and she looked back to the paper, grinning - if possible - wider.

Eloise Baker had been knocked out with the same drug as her mother.

Oh, yes. This was going to be a very good day.

It was just as Molly had returned to her lab to look at the results in more detail that she heard the knock on the door.

She froze, wheeling around far too fast. Quickly checking her hair in the nearest reflective surface and trying to calm her butterflies, she called out "Come in!".

But as the door swung open, it wasn't Sherlock and co. on the other side.

DI Lestrade held the door open for a sharp-looking woman in a skirt-suit with a poker-straight blonde ponytail reaching down her back, pulled so tightly it gave her an instant facelift. Her lips were the same shade as her obviously false nails - deep, striking red. Her eyes were framed with square black glasses and she looked at Molly with a smile that said 'I don't really care about you, but I'm being polite'.

Molly recognised her and for the first time that day, her good mood faltered.

This was Emma Fischer - Miss. Fischer. How a 'Miss' got into a position as important as hers, Molly would never know; she couldn't have been much older than 35. But, of course, it wasn't polite to ask. Miss. Fischer was in charge of most of the police protection programmes in the area - she oversaw them, how intense they needed to be, how much they were needed and, most importantly, how long they lasted for.

"Hi, Molly," she said, her tone the same sarcastic sweet as her smile, "Can we have a chat?"

An apologetic-looking DI Lestrade shut the door behind her, before turning to Molly with sad eyes that said 'I tried'. But Molly still didn't know what was going on.

Of course, she had an idea, but she wouldn't believe it. It couldn't be that.

"Sure," she said, keeping the quiver from her voice. Emma 'smiled' again.

"It's about your protection, Molly. You know, the one we put up to protect you from-"

"I know what it's there for," Molly interrupted, uncharacteristically rude. Emma looked a little taken aback.

"Well, yes," she continued, "Mr. Moriarty," Molly tried not to flinch at the name, "hasn't been in contact with you since last year, has he?"

Molly stayed silent. Emma looked stern. "I'll take that as a no. Of course he hasn't - we'd know about it. Well, Molly, it has been six months since we set up your programme, and it's at this time we have to review it. As I'm sure you're aware, these programmes take a lot of police effort and money to keep up, and we do like to finish them as soon as we evaluate that it's safe-"

"Please," Molly couldn't keep the shake from her voice now, Miss Fischer's words spinning in her head, "you can't take this away from me."

The woman looked at Molly as if she had some terrible disease. For the first time, Lestrade spoke.

"I told you, Emma," he said to the woman, who kept on ignoring him, "she's not ready for this. Leave it be - just for a little while."

"And I told you, Greg," she retorted, never taking her eyes off Molly, "these protection programmes aren't here as a personal safety net to make people feel better. They're reserved for people in actual danger."

Molly felt physically sick. Her knees felt weak. She couldn't keep the images from her nightmares from her head - his face, his twisted smile as he catches her, holds her, claims her as his own. She swore she heard him laughing, sending electric shivers down her spine, though of course, it was in her head. She felt tears stinging the back of her eyes, and for the first time in what felt like forever, Molly defended herself.

"I am in actual danger," she tried to insist, although she wasn't even convincing herself, "Please - he'll come back, I know he will-"

"Highly unlikely, Miss Hooper. As I've already said, he has shown absolutely no interest over the past six months. No phone calls, letters, e-mails, secret meetings - nothing. I'm sorry." It was clear from her tone that she really wasn't.

"He's waiting." Molly said, her voice shaking, tears beginning to slide down her cheeks, "He's clever, Miss Fischer - you don't understand, he's so clever... he knows you'll leave me, he'll come back, I know he will-"

"I understand perfectly, Miss Hooper. James Moriarty is a psychopath - a mass-murdering genius of all proportions. Now, tell me, why would a man such as that waste his time with an innocent girl like yourself? You are of no interest to him."

The woman's harsh words hit Molly like a knife in the stomach; cold and fierce. She shook her head, but couldn't think of anything to say. She didn't understand. She couldn't understand.

She couldn't take away her protection.

DI Lestrade spoke again, louder than before. "She's his ex, Emma. Of course she's of interest to him."

Miss Fischer turned to him, speaking quieter, though Molly could still hear her. "She was used, Greg. She was a piece of the puzzle. A stepping stone to Mr Holmes. Nothing more."

That felt like another stab in the stomach. Molly was sobbing silently now.

"Please," she choked, unashamedly begging, all the fear she'd bottled up over the past six months spilling out, "don't. I'm scared, Miss Fischer. So scared. I can't sleep, I can't eat, I can't talk about him-"

Miss Fischer wheeled around. "Those are problems not solved by police protection, Molly. Those are problems solved by a psychiatrist. As I've said, I'm not your personal safety net-"

"I know things... he'll come back, I know he will-"

"Know things, Miss Hooper? Know what, exactly? And why haven't you mentioned it before? Anything that could help us with our investigation?"

She was shouting now, taking a step closer towards Molly. Molly flinched away. DI Lestrade tried to help; "Stop, Emma. Leave her alone."

"I don't think you understand just how serious this case is, Miss Hooper," she said, the volume of her voice dropping but her words just as fierce, "There are teams across the country looking for James Moriarty. This is much bigger than you. He is on the national Most Wanted list. Why would he bother with an ex? Surely, he'd have killed you by now. He doesn't care Miss Hooper, he never did. Get that into your head. Now, are you really going to jeopardise an entire investigation based on a childish fear of the impossible?"

Molly didn't say a word, she didn't look at the woman. Instead, she concentrated on her shoes, shaking, sobbing, wishing for it all to go away.

In some strange way, she wished that Jim were with her now. Or Sherlock. Or even Dr. Watson. They would know what to say, how to stop them. They probably wouldn't even need the police protection at all. Nothing scared them. They wouldn't cry in the face of a woman barely ten years older than them. They'd know exactly what to do.

Molly wished, not for the first time, that she was more like them.

"Miss Fischer, back off." DI Lestrade sounded stern now, but Molly didn't dare to look up, "Leave her alone or I'll have you done for assault. I think she understands that her protection is over, don't you? If we can't convince you then fine - but never, ever take it out on an innocent, defenceless girl like her."

Innocent. Defenceless.

That was Molly all over. The tears came harder.

She heard the click of Miss Fischer's heels as she advanced to DI Lestrade. "Don't talk to me like that, Detective Inspector, or I'll get your badge taken off you."

Lestrade scoffed. "You don't have the authority."

There was silence. Molly didn't even want to see what was happening. Finally, she heard the heels on the floor as Miss Fischer turned.

"Your police protection ends today, Miss Hooper. We can't help you any more. And Lestrade? Book her into a psychiatrist. That's an order."

Psychiatrist. So now Molly was crazy, as well as pathetic?

The click of the heels faded away and Molly tried to control her tears, still not looking up. She heard Lestrade walk towards her.

"Molly..." His voice was soft, kind, warm. Molly couldn't stand it.

He put his hand on her shoulder and she flinched away, looking him in the eyes for no more than a second. She could imagine her own look of fear, but he just looked confused. She quickly turned around and began to walk away, breaking out into a run as she left the lab and the tears came again.

She didn't need his sympathy. She didn't want it.

She wanted to be stronger. More like Sherlock.

Less like Molly.


	4. Chapter 4

It took a long time for the tears to stop. Even then, Molly was shaking violently, unable to hold a pen, never mind a scalpel.

But she wouldn't go home. She'd see the day through. She didn't need special treatment.

She worked silently for hours in her lab, but couldn't quite bring herself to carry out the autopsy on Eloise Baker. Her good mood that morning was nothing but a distant memory, more like a dream than reality. As if Molly could ever be happy without something ruining it. It was like he was always there, like a cloud over her head, ruining everything. Her entire life.

Nobody visited her. No doubt they'd all heard. Molly didn't think she'd see any other lab workers for at least a week. Probably longer.

She wiped off all her make up she'd so pain-stakingly applied that morning - it was redundant now. Sherlock wasn't going to visit, and besides, it had run all down her face when she'd cried that morning. She covered up her perfectly arranged outfit that had taken hours to choose with a huge white lab coat - she wasn't in the mood now. She didn't care. She tied her hair back in the way she always did, taking all the pins and clips out she'd put in that morning. What did it matter what she looked like? She was always going to be pathetic on the inside.

She was always going to be Molly - the girl used by Moriarty, too afraid to go out alone, forever pitied.

She knew she was wallowing in self-pity, but she didn't care. If anybody deserved to, it was Molly.

Unexpectedly, Molly was drawn from her thoughts by a knock on the door.

She groaned, looking at the clock on the wall. It was 2.30. Only another three hours until this was all over. She thought she could survive until then, but not with visitors.

She ignored it when they knocked again. And again.

They really were insistent, whoever they were. Molly never took her eyes off her Petri dish.

That is, until they stormed in.

She span around so fast on her chair she almost fell off it. Then, when she saw who it was that had indeed stormed into her lab, she almost fell off again, somewhere between ecstatic and wishing for the ground to swallow her up.

Sherlock froze when he saw her, his billowing coat falling around his thin legs. "I didn't think you were in here." He adjusted his scarf, his cold blue eyes apparently looking straight through Molly. As always, he looked impeccable, the very definition of perfection. His pale face and defined cheekbones looked as if they were carved from marble, standing straight, dressed in the usual long black coat and blue scarf. He could have been a statue, but for his eyes - icy blue and calculating, always alive, taking in their surroundings, every minute detail, a glimpse of the beautiful mind behind them. His mop of hair lay haphazardly on his head - he had no time for styling, but still, somehow, the curls looked... right.

Molly managed a very eloquent "Shmumphadenomeeble?"

It was Sherlock's turn to look at Molly as if she had some horrible disease. "Yes. Quite." He wheeled around, marching to the filing cabinet and began filtering through the files.

At the click of a crutch, Molly turned around to see the limping Dr. Watson entering the room. "Hi, Molly," he offered huskily, gesturing to Sherlock, "Sorry about him-"

"Why?" The younger man interrupted, turning to face the other occupants of the room.

John sighed, the signal that this was a common occurrence. He ran his hand through his short, dirty-blonde hair, leaning heavily on his crutch. His tanned face seemed to say 'are you absolutely kidding me?', and his warm blue eyes narrowed at his friend. They were kind, with smile lines around the edges, and a completely different colour to Sherlock's - never icy or cold. Not that Molly had seen, anyway. He was nowhere near as tall as Sherlock, and nowhere near as rude. But he was kind and intelligent, and bore a strong exterior - despite the broken man underneath that Molly had heard of, but never seen.

"I told you not to come in."

"Oh, what am I, your child, now?"

"Sometimes, it really does feel like it."

"Shut up. It's not like we didn't knock."

"Molly didn't answer the door."

"Yes, why was that?" Sherlock turned to her so abruptly that Molly was blown away, and, once again, all words fled from her head.

"I..."

"Sherlock, stop it. Leave it alone. Go back to doing... whatever you were doing, as long as it'll keep you happy."

Sherlock jutted his lip out like a petulant child at his friend, before turning back around. John looked back to Molly.

"Like I said, sorry."

Molly shook her head. "No... no, it's fine."

John offered a small smile to her. "It's the Baker case - you know, the mother and daughter..."

Molly felt a hole in her stomach. "Oh... yeah... actually, about that-"

"It was you, wasn't it?" Sherlock turned back around, piercing Molly with his eyes again. She couldn't do anything but hum in response.

"It was you, who ordered the tox report," he was advancing now, looking her up and down. Molly felt her breath catch in her throat, "You noticed something wasn't right, didn't you?"

Molly hummed again, uncomfortably high pitched. Sherlock took a pause that was far too long.

"Nice work. That was... impressive, for a normal-minded person."

All thoughts of admitting that she hadn't yet done Eloise's autopsy disappeared, as Molly tried to remember how to breath, basking in the light of Sherlock's compliment. All fear momentarily disappeared, as he looked straight at her, one half of his mouth slowly curving, a smile playing with his lips.

And there it was. The crooked, almost sarcastic smile of Sherlock Holmes, rarely seen. It took all Molly's strength to stay upright. She beamed and blushed and laughed nervously like a little girl.

"Thanks," she said quietly. And he returned to his filing cabinet.

Molly looked across to John, who was still leaning on his crutch, now grinning and shaking his head. Molly cocked her head at him, and he nodded towards her, eyebrows raised. Molly instantly knew what he meant, and blushed harder, all the way to her ears, a shy smile spreading on her lips.

It was obvious that Dr. Watson knew of Molly's affections for the detective, but she was fairly certain that he wouldn't tell.

"Are you looking for Eloise Baker's autopsy report, then, Sherlock?" Dr. Watson's words reminded Molly of the fact that very soon, all Sherlock's happiness with her would fizzle out. She hadn't done it. And he needed it.

Oh, lord.

Sherlock hummed in agreement, and John turned back to Molly. Molly bit her lip, the words spilling out.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock, Dr. Watson - it's just, with everything that's happened today... I couldn't bring myself - I got sidetracked, I really haven't-"

"Woah, woah, woah." John cut her off, his brow furrowed together. "Molly, what's the matter? After what happened today?"

Molly bit her lip again, feeling Sherlock's eyes on her, looking to the floor. John asked again.

"Molly, are you alright?"

Before she could think of an answer, she was cut off by a shout from in the corridor, coming through the still open door.

"Who knew morgues were so interesting?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, looking to the door. John looked immidiately weary. Molly was confused. It was a woman's voice, that was clear. Molly couldn't deduce anything else - after all, she wasn't Sherlock Holmes. She didn't recognise the voice - she didn't know who it was.

It didn't take long for her to find out, though.

Within the minute, after the sound of high-heels clicking along the corridor, a woman appeared in the doorway of the lab. She wore the highest heels Molly had ever seen; bright red and patent leather, at the end of very tight-fitting jeans. Her legs seemed to go on forever. She was dressed in a smart blazer from the waist up, not buttoned up fully, accenting her figure and revealing a black, low-cut t-shirt underneath. Her red hair tumbled in loose curls past her shoulders and down her back, a side fringe sweeping across her face. Her smile was blinding, obviously framed in bright red lipstick against her milky-pale skin. Her eyes were hazel, surrounded by long, black eyelashes.

Even in the same room as her, Molly felt really quite inadequate. This woman was beautiful - there was no other word for it.

She looked to Sherlock. "Did you find what you were looking for, then?" Her voice was lightly accented - American, Molly thought, but distant, as if she hadn't been home in a while.

Sherlock looked her up and down. "Not yet."

So, they knew each other. Lestrade had said that Sherlock was with a 'friend' - was this her? Molly swallowed, her throat dry.

The woman walked confidently across the lab to stand next to Dr. Watson, towering over him in her heels. She grinned at the man. "Are you alright, Johnny?"

"Fine, thank you, Irene. And don't call me Johnny."

Irene just grinned.

It wasn't long before her eyes fell on Molly. Molly felt instantly terrified.

"Well, who's this?" Strangely, the woman's almost patronizing tone didn't infuriate Molly. It was probably the dazzling smile she was now shooting at her.

Sherlock answered for her, like her father. "This is Molly Hooper - the girl I told you about who works at the morgue."

Wait... Sherlock had talked about her? Told this.. this woman about her?

Molly's confidence came from the warm glow she got inside.

"Hi," she said, holding out her hand for the woman to shake, despite the fact she had no make-up on, her hair was a mess and she was wearing an over-sized lab coat. Irene's smile became softer. She didn't care. Sherlock had mentioned her to another person. He'd thought about her.

"Nice to meet you," she said kindly, shaking Molly's hand, "I'm Irene. Irene Adler." Molly smiled, surprising even herself, momentarily forgetting who she was.

Sherlock didn't take long to remind her.

"So, you were saying? What happened today, Molly?"

The three people looked at her, and Molly returned to being herself. She looked to the floor, realising she'd actually have to tell them. Even Irene - who she didn't even know.

"They... they've stopped my protection." She mumbled. But John heard.

"What? They can't do that! That's... that's... that's-"

"Perfectly fine." Sherlock finished. Molly's eyes shot up.

"What?"

"Well, when he comes back it will finally prove just how inadequate the Metropolitan Police truly are." He strode back to the filing cabinet.

Molly felt his words hit her - the familiar sensation that nobody cared taking over again. Especially Sherlock.

John, however, still looked livid.

"This is outrageous! Do they not know who they're dealing with? He'll come back, of course he'll come back - he's a mental case! A madman! A-"

"Psychopath?" Sherlock offered from the corner of the room, "Yes. He's an actual example of one of those. Please do note the differences-"

"Wait!"

Everybody looked to Irene.

"What the hell is going on?"

"Nothing that concerns you, Irene."

Irene scoffed. "Oh, please. I'm here, aren't I? I heard that. I know something's going on. And this poor little chicken looks terribly upset." Irene looked to Molly, with what looked like

genuine sympathy in her eyes, leading Molly to ignore the fact that this strange woman had called her 'chicken'.

John had obviously noticed this too. "Chicken?"

Sherlock ignored him, eyeing Irene carefully. "They've... erm, Molly?"

Molly looked at Irene, straight into her seemingly porcelain face. She was obviously waiting for an answer. Molly had to tell her.

"They've taken away my police protection." She mumbled quietly. Irene gasped melodramatically.

"Police protection? Now, what's a little girl like you doing under police protection?"

Molly's brow furrowed, feeling a spark of anger inside but swallowing it. John opened his mouth to speak, but Molly got there first, taking a deep breath. 

"I'd rather not say, thank you." Her voice was sterner than she'd expected it to be, but it seemed to have the desired effect.

Both Sherlock and John looked at her in surprise, and even Irene looked taken aback. Immediately, Molly blushed.

"I mean, it's just - you know, it's a bit... raw-"

"I understand, sweetie," Irene said, her smile replaced by a contemplative expression, her head tilted like a confused puppy, "that's okay, if you don't want to talk about it."

Molly looked to the floor, inordinately embarrassed over her outburst. She was sure that the others were having some kind of silent conversation over her head, but the silence was too comforting to break - at least nobody was asking more awkward questions. It was John who finally broke it.

"So, Molly, you were saying? About the report?"

Molly looked at him, too scared to look at Sherlock. "I haven't done it." She said quietly, "I just... never got around to it. I'm really sorry."

There was a pause, before Molly could practically feel Sherlock grinning at the back of her head.

"Fantastic!"

John's brow furrowed. "Sorry?"

"Oh, Dr. Watson!" Sherlock went on, still grinning, "Don't you see? She hasn't done the autopsy!"

John looked to Molly for some kind of answer. She shrugged as he turned back to Sherlock. "Yeah... I got that bit, Sherlock-"

"Oh, John! Don't you get it! We can do it ourselves!"

Sherlock looked ecstatic, seemingly waiting for a similar excited outburst from John. John, however, didn't look so overjoyed. Molly couldn't help but giggle, but Sherlock was too busy smiling like a madman to notice. He wheeled around dramatically, his coat swishing like a wizard's cloak, and began to march towards the door.

"Onwards, Watson!" he shouted over his shoulder, "The game is afoot!"


End file.
